


Fashioned for Love

by StarlightAsteria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Angst, Complex relationships, F/M, Jaimsa Smut Week, Love Triangles, Romance, polo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-06 09:36:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12814734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: my random collection of prompts and drabbles





	1. A Time for Grief

 

* * *

 

 

 

**A TIME FOR GRIEF**

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**JAIME LANNISTER**

  
****

 

He tries. 

 

He tries with everything he is, with everything he has - because he loves her. So he swallows down the shards of his own heart, tucks them safely away where they can’t be seen (where they can’t be mocked - not that she would ever mock him; she is too kind for that - but the competition with _him;_ there’s too much of an edge to it).

 

But he can’t share. 

 

It is beyond him - after Cersei’s actions against him; this hits far too close to home. 

 

He lasts half a year, and there are times when he thinks he can bear it. When she smiles at him; when she laughs. He sees her walk about her castle every day, and the sense of relief, of pride he feels; that she is alive and thriving; it soothes him. When he shares her bed, he feels alive, he feels capable, and he devotes himself to her pleasure; he attempts to show her how fierce, how all-consuming, how tender his love for her is. Holding her in the grey hours of the silent early morning, before the castle stirs, he feels a sense of peace he has so rarely felt (he can pretend she is his).

 

But then he will walk past her chamber door in the mornings at the beginning of his shift (he is her sworn shield, after all) and see _him_ leaving her rooms, and though his expression remains even, something deep within him twists and shatters, and it is so painful he can barely breathe. 

 

He loves her; he needs her - needs her like he needs air and water. 

 

She loves him (he does not doubt her sincerity); but she does not need him; not really, not beyond the office he performs of protecting her person. 

 

He tries; he tries his best - because he loves her and she has asked this of him. 

 

In the end it is too much. 

 

He sees Jon’s hand flutter over her abdomen; he sees her smile radiantly in response. He retreats before he can be seen; dizzy with anguish, his breathing harsh, and when he bolts the door to his own chambers he sinks heavily down onto the bed and chokes out a sob. He hasn’t been to her bed in a week; he hadn’t noticed she was with child. She hasn’t told him yet (she told Jon first), and abruptly he can’t breathe.  

 

He has tried; but he cannot endure this.

 

What makes it worse is that it had been just the two of them at first; after her heart had been callously broken when her brother-cousin decided to jump into bed with the dragon queen. He’d been the one to comfort her; to love her, but after the dragon queen was slain in the battle against the White Walkers, those two had somehow reconciled, and now Jaime has to share. 

 

He does not go down to the Great Hall for supper; he is not hungry, and he does not want to see them together. So he only sits, his head in his hands, his posture defeated and broken, silent tears running down his cheeks, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. 

 

He is so lost within his own mind that he flinches in shock when he hears her voice, soft with concern, in his ear, when she comes to sit beside him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. He blinks, disorientated, and realises it is much later than he’d thought; his fireplace is burning embers instead of logs. 

 

“You weren’t at supper,” she says quietly. “Is something-

 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he replies, cutting her off, aiming for a harsh tone, and ending up with eviscerated instead. He looks stubbornly at his hands; he doesn’t want to look at her, he can’t look at her or else he’ll lose his nerve. 

 

“What do you mean? I love you, and you feel the same. I know you do.” Her voice is tight, tremulous with anxiety and hurt, and he hates that he is the cause.

 

“I do,” he agrees thickly, solemnly. “I love you with my whole heart, mind, body and soul.” He swallows his tears. “But I can’t share you; it is not something I am capable of. It hurts too much.” He hurries on, struggling to articulate properly. “The fault is mine; you’ve done nothing wrong. It is I who am not enough.”

 

“I don’t know what to say,” she replies, shaken. That makes him look at her; and he immediately wishes he hadn’t. She is pale, so pale, and her eyes glimmer with tears. He swallows viciously. He knows what he wants her to say, and everything in him is screaming _Fight for me! I need you, I love you, fight for me!_

 

“Why did you not say anything?”

 

He looks at her incredulously, gritting his teeth against despair. “I could see how happy you were. How could I?” His voice breaks and his hand clenches in humiliation. “How could I take that from you? How could I demand you give him up?”

 

“Oh, Jaime.” He loves the way she says his name, always so tenderly, but now it just makes him weep, and he furiously presses his eyes shut, palms pressed to his lids, and his whole body shakes. 

 

When she speaks again, her voice is harsher, and he recoils. “And yet you are… asking to leave?”

 

“Yes,” he exhales, suddenly weary, so incredibly weary. “For my own sanity. Living without you will hurt; but watching you with another is agony.” He laughs humourlessly. “My own brand of selfishness, I suppose.”

 

“Then I accept your resignation, and will have provisions brought to you in the morning,” she replies evenly, and he gasps at her finality. 

 

“That’s it?” he hardly recognises his own voice, rough and hoarse with despair and defeat. _Fight for me, I need you, I love you, fight for me. Please._

 

She nods. “That’s it.”

 

She won’t cry in front of him (he knows that), but -

 

And then the door shuts behind her, and he is alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When she gives birth, some months later to a girl with her russet hair but flashing emerald eyes and a boy with golden hair and her blue eyes she weeps and names them Joanna and Arthur. She has thought of Jaime every day since he left to go she knows not where, and she thinks she might have made a mistake. Jon is happy she and her children are well; happy he has a family, he says he doesn’t care that he isn’t the twins’ biological father, but Sansa, irrationally resentful, thinks he should care. 

 

Because however inadvertently, between the two of them they have destroyed the father of these innocents; a good man, proud and strong and fierce and honourable with a heart as gold as his hair. 

 

Jaime always wanted children of his own; she knows that - children he could claim and raise and not have to hide. 

 

So she makes sure to tell the twins about their father, how beautifully he fought, how fiercely he loved, how ardent his devotion was, and how much she loved him in return and when she speaks of him the children have stars in their eyes. 

 

And though it lessens the guilt it never truly fades.    

 

 

* * *

 


	2. A Time for Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the least I can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for sansalannistark :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**A TIME FOR GIFTS**

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s her name day; though she doesn’t expect anyone to either notice or care, not here, not in the Red Keep, which is why the sight of Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, lounging about in the solar she has to share with Lord Tyrion, without her husband’s presence, takes her quite aback. 

“Ser Jaime,” she curtseys, her voice carefully hiding the curiosity and unease she feels. 

“Lady Sansa,” he bows, before frowning. Somehow, it isn’t a frown of anger or - somehow, the Kingslayer looks uncertain. “Lady Sansa, I - I have something for you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“From your mother, she desired me to give it to you upon the occasion of your name-day.” 

She staggers, reaching out blindly, tripping over her skirts, and only the Kingslayer’s quick reflexes prevent her from tumbling to the ground. She blinks at him, fighting the instinctive flinch when she looks at his green eyes (Lannister eyes), She exhales shakily as he realises he is not looking at her with contempt or pity but with concern, and it knots something in her stomach. And then she blinks again when she feels him press a small object into her palm, her mind spinning. She has no need to look at it to know; she knows exactly what it is. 

“Thank you, ser. You do me a great kindness,” she replies shakily, and she steps out of the confusing security of his embrace to sink into a full curtsey, deeper than any she has ever executed before. When she looks up again, Ser Jaime’s mouth has gone slack. 

“No,” he replies hoarsely. “It is the least I can do.”

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

He sighs deeply. “I swore an oath, to your mother, that if she aided my escape I would return you and your sister both to her.”

“My mother… she wanted me back?”

“And your sister.”

This is too much to take in; this time her legs can no longer take her weight and she crumples fully to the floor. “But… but… “ she wavers, her voice barely above a whisper. “Robb would not,” she realises, and betrayal is bitter ash in her mouth. “That is why I am still here, and why you were imprisoned for so long.”

“Yes,” he confirms sadly. 

“And we Starks claim to be honourable!” She cries in horror. “He raised the banners for Father but instead of fighting for me he decided to break a betrothal contract and get himself killed. But not for me, never for me.”

“Lady Sansa,” the Kingslayer says gently, and she is so startled that she snaps her gaze to his. He offers his left hand, warm and calloused, to help her to her feet, and she takes it, silently, too bemused to do anything but. “Your direwolf is dead, and you yet live. Your family, your parents, your siblings are dead, and you yet live.”

“Your family started a war to get you back; my family abandoned me to my fate.”

“Your mother did not,” he insists. “Your mother fought for you to her last breath, and that token is proof. Take heart in that if nothing else. You will endure, and you will see Winterfell again if I have to bring you there myself.”

“What are you saying?” she trembles at the intensity of his expression, the fierce, solemn look in his green eyes.

There is a heavy moment of silence, and she can only stare in shock as he sinks swiftly to one knee, unbuckling his sword belt to lay the weapon at her feet. 

“My sword is yours,” he says simply. “In all endeavours, my sword is yours.”

She gapes, and then, before she entirely realises what she is doing, she has her arms around his neck, and her mouth to his ear, his cheek, as she rambles out her thanks, her gratitude, her promises in turn. She will be honourable; she is a Stark, and therefore she will ask nothing of him that will bring him dishonour. He stiffens at first, but then sags wearily into her embrace, arms coming tentatively around her waist, and that makes her bury her face in his neck and weep convulsively. 

He jolts, and she sniffs. “I’m sorry, I’m being silly,” she hiccups. “It is only that - you are the first person in so long to touch me with anything other than brutality. I’d forgotten what it was like.”

“My lady,” he soothes, drifting his hand through her hair, down her back. “My lady, my lady, oh, my lady.”

And for the first time since her father was killed, she is no longer ivory or porcelain or steel but flesh.  

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	3. A Time for Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has never really considered herself a jodhpurs kind of person. That is, until she meets Jaime Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for day one of the Jaimsa smut week on tumblr; the prompt was clothing.
> 
> Enjoy

 

* * *

 

 

 

A TIME FOR RAIN

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa, at twenty-four, has never really considered herself a jodhpurs kind of person; the sole exception is when Jaime Lannister wears them during polo tournaments, or wears them whenever he likes, really, and then she finds them alluring indeed. 

 

Raising her glass of champagne to her lips, she smiles secretively as she remembers how they met; a classic case of the annoyingly changeable Westerosi weather inflicting a sudden storm upon what was up until that point a perfectly sunny afternoon; ideal for a championship match. The well-heeled mingling, champagne flutes and canapés in hand, talking very loudly about how they pretend to know everything about polo; the players charging up and down upon the turf; a distant roll of thunder, and then the heavens opening. Cue horrified screams; hairspray washing away from coiffed chignons, leaving women’s hair limp and sodden under garishly bright fascinators and hats. 

 

She’d been unlucky enough to be wearing a cream linen suit and summer espadrilles; the downpour had made her black lace bra and knickers perfectly visible to whoever cared to look. Instead of braving the furious mass of spectators huddled in the catering pavilion, she’d dashed to the Winterfell team lorry, hoping to find a spare horse-blanket under which to huddle and warm up. 

 

Shivering in the muddy chaos, unable to find any of her polo-mad younger siblings, she’d startled when a heavy waxed greatcoat had been dropped around her shoulders by Jaime Lannister with a casual, “You need it more than I do, my lady.” She’d protested, indicating that he was equally sodden, noticing despite the situation that the rain had rather nicely plastered his shirt to his skin, her throat closing. But he’d only winked, replying that she could give it back to him next time. And before she could answer, he’d dashed off to bring his own ponies in, and that was when she’d noticed what his jodhpurs did for his form, emphasising the muscles of his legs, and, realising with a gulp, his arse.

 

That had been a year ago, and it has become a tradition of sorts for her to wear a linen suit to these matches. So here she stands, in fitted blue linen, her russet hair curling down her back, watching through elegant sunglasses as her lover dominates the game, drinking in the fluidity of his every move, the passion and sheer _life_ he exudes.

 

He winks at her as he canters past to line up for another throw-in from the umpire, and Margaery Tyrell at Sansa’s side, says, “Ooh, I’d jump into bed with him, wouldn’t you?”

 

“You’re dating his younger brother, Marge,” Sansa sighs. 

 

“So?” Margaery shrugs unrepentantly. 

 

“You are filthy, sometimes, you do realise?” Sansa replies evenly, not taking her eyes off the game (off him). Her and Jaime have been keeping things quiet; not wanting to antagonise Sansa’s extended family, though she is tiring of the charade. Simply because Starks and Lannisters have been rival teams for decades doesn’t mean everyone has to be all blood-feudy and medieval about it. Sansa doesn’t even play, herself, she’s a concert violinist, by the Seven. 

 

“And I think you need to loosen up; get laid,” Margaery replies, a touch acerbically. 

 

Sansa only takes another dainty sip of her champagne in reply. She has a strange relationship with the Tyrell girl; part genuine affection, part mutual manipulation, they are both friends and rivals, and the lines do blur. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later, once all seven chukkas have been played and Jaime’s team have won, she slips to his side and slides a possessive arm around his waist. He looks down at her, surprised at first, and then incandescently joyful, he proceeds to ignore his team-mates and focus all of his attention on her.

 

“Well done,” she says quietly by way of greeting, trembling at the intense, possessive way he looks at her, the way he holds her. 

 

He grins rakishly, green eyes bright. “Thank you, my lady,”

 

She presses a lingering kiss to his neck, enjoying his ragged groan. “I’m tired of hiding, Jaime,” she whispers into his ear. “Do with me as you will, sir.” He stills, dumbfounded, and she presses a heated kiss to his lips, revelling in the masculine, consuming taste of him, wishing with everything she is that they were not in public. When she pulls away, drifting a teasing caress with her warm palm down his jawline, his eyes are open, and _blazing._

 

Growling, green eyes flashing, he pulls her back in, one hand grasping her hip, the other tangling firmly in her hair, and her breathing hitches, her pulse stutters, and her body softens instantly against his hard frame. She trembles, violently, as he lowers his lips to her ear. “I am not letting you go, sweet lover,” he says heatedly. “And I am going to toy with you this afternoon as we do our rounds here; fingers drifting over your hip, my arm brushing your breast, my lips on your ear, your neck, my breath upon your skin, with the knowledge that I intend to take you back to my flat this evening and lay you upon my bed and strip you naked with my teeth, peeling off that lovely suit of yours and make you moan and mewl and writhe and _beg_ for me, and only then will I grant your request.”

 

His name escapes her mouth in a hissed whisper, even as her head swims, and she is dizzy with the dark velvet of his words, and the dangerous promise in them. 

 

He grins unrepentantly against her neck, manoeuvring her so she is firmly tucked into his side, his left arm tight around her waist, his fingers tracing maddening patterns into her hip. 

 

“Shall we, my lady?” he says formally, and she glares heatedly at him, her blue eyes narrowed.

 

He laughs gloriously in response.     

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	4. A Time for Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You do not need to live with the consequences.
> 
> Do I not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for Day 2 of the Jaimsa Smut Week on Tumblr; the prompt was 'one night stand'.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

A TIME FOR REGRETS

 

 

* * *

 

 

JAIME LANNISTER

 

“One night, Jaime,” she murmurs into his ear, sighing as he tightens his grip on her lithe waist, winds his hand into her shining russet hair. “One night, just one more.” One night will never be enough, he thinks furiously, but if that is - 

 

His thoughts are interrupted by the sensation of her sweet mouth trailing light kisses along his jawline, and he is no longer certain whom is seducing whom. Their masks are long discarded; hers an icy silver-blue; his a bold crimson and gold - both accoutrements lie abandoned in the hallway of Winterfell’s Great Keep. Jaime could not care less. They are hidden in an alcove, behind a heavy, mouldering tapestry; the flagstones are dusty with disuse - they will not be bothered here. 

 

He kisses her desperately, furiously, fuelled by love and rage and despair. This is her wedding feast, and she is not marrying him. He’d petitioned her father for her hand - but what had he to offer her but a Kingdom in ruins, a castle not yet recovered from Rhaegar Targaryen’s sack ten years before, and the most tarnished name in all the Kingdoms? Only his heart, and an empty vault, and that had not been enough. _And who, are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?_ What a fucking jape. 

 

“Marry me, Sansa,” he replies in a voice hoarse with tears. “Marry me, please.”

 

She wrenches her head back, averting her gaze. “You know I cannot.” She trembles, violently. “I cannot disobey my father.”

 

His right hand leaves her hair to help his left lift her silk skirts above her waist, making quick work of her smallclothes, relishing the smoothness of her legs, and she bites off a strangled cry as his fingers brush her core. “You already have disobeyed him,” he retorts. “Or does this not count?” he continues heatedly, stroking her, sinking first one finger, then two, then three into her. _Silk and velvet and heat,_ he thinks, groaning, his chest twisting in pain. 

 

She laughs a low laugh on the edge of hysteria, forcing the sound past the lump in her throat. “You are cruel, my love.”

 

“No crueler than you are, my beauty,” he growls, and he feels the way her entire body shivers and trembles at the baritone of his voice. “Tell me to end this, and I will,” he continues, his voice gentling. “Sansa - _tell me_!” 

 

“I cannot!” she cries, flinging the words. Accusation and absolution. “The gods help me but I cannot,” she sobs, and he covers her convulsive cries with his own mouth, pressing her more firmly into the stone. Her hands come up to tangle in his hair, holding his mouth to hers, and he rocks against her, helplessly. ferociously forcing away the tears behind his eyelids. He must fail, because he becomes aware of her gentle, dainty fingers smoothing them away, and he stills, leaning his forehead against hers, drowning in the dark blue of her eyes, in the emotions he sees reflected there. 

 

“I lo-”

 

“Don’t say it, Jaime, please don’t say it,” she begs, and the agony in her voice makes him relent. 

 

“Alright,” he agrees softly. “I won’t say it.” _But even you, my love, cannot command my heart to cease to beat._

 

“Just - give me a memory to warm me in the cold years ahead,” she continues, her voice tight and uncertain. He swallows harshly. Were he more selfless man, he would refuse; but he is not and so he unlaces his breeches, and pulls his fingers out of her, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his stomach twisting viscerally at her taste, and he enjoys the way her eyes widen and darken. She grips his shoulders with her hands and wraps her long legs around his waist, and he sinks into her with a swift, single thrust that rips a blissful sigh from her lips and a deep groan from his. 

 

She is hot and tight and absolutely drenched around him, and he grits his teeth, hissing, revelling in the way she feels, taking a moment to savour it, to brand the memory into his mind. He refuses to weep. And then he begins to move, possessed by the need to claim, to bring her to such delirious heights of pleasure, to make her _his._

 

She pulls him back to her, and their lips meet in a kiss that is consumingly cruel in its ferocity. He drinks deeply of her, he is merciless, ruthless in the display of his affection, one hand on her hip keeping her steady and aligned to him, the other tangling once more in her hair, swallowing her moans, her sweet, alluring, _maddening_ mewls. He looses himself in her, repeating a broken litany of endearments and vows whenever he gasps a breath, driving them both fiercely towards their completion. 

 

It does not last long; but he always makes it a point to see to her pleasure first, and only when she is gasping and breaking against him does he allow himself to groan his release. 

 

She reluctantly lowers her legs, and he, equally unwillingly, pulls out of her. Though her legs are shaky she quickly rearranges her skirts. 

 

“Sansa,” he says softly, but she will not look at him, and panic makes his throat seize up, his chest tighten, his stomach twist and churn. “Sansa-”

 

Angrily, she brushes tears away with the backs of her hands, breathing rapidly. “This was a mistake - I should not have - ”

 

He stumbles back, reeling, gaping, his ears ringing. “I cannot regret this,” he bites out eventually, willing her to look at him, and something fragile in him splinters when _still_ she will not. “Never.”

 

“Men!” she scoffs. “Of course you do not regret it - you do not need to live with the consequences!”

 

“Do I not? That I must live every day of the rest of my life knowing that you are not mine, that there is another in your bed, that the children you will bear and love will never be mine?” He snaps furiously, and oh, now, she looks at him, pale and trembling. Brittle. Agonised, however much she tries to hide it, and he steps towards her, wanting to hold, to comfort, but she steps away from him.

 

“No.”

 

He looks at her, eyes wide, rooted to the spot. 

 

“No,” she repeats lowly, finality embedded firmly in the word.

 

She takes another step towards the tapestry and his body understands what she is about even though his mind is utterly frozen because he extends a trembling hand towards her, but she lifts the cloth and then she is gone. She is gone, and he sinks to the cold flagstones in disbelief, his breeches still undone, and his stunned gaze falls upon her discarded smallclothes. 

 

_I love you,_ he thinks numbly, and only then in that cold alcove, with the heady taste of her still upon his lips, with his hands still warm with the memory of holding her, does he allow himself to weep, a dying lion. 

 

He knows instinctively that he will never see her again.           

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	5. A Time for Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ask nicely, my lady,” he continues ruthlessly, kissing her shoulder, and the tenderness in his gesture makes her capitulate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! this little one-shot was written for day three of the Jaimsa Smut Week - prompt: Valentine's day.

 

* * *

 

 

_a time for rituals_

 

* * *

 

 

SANSA STARK

 

“Where are we going?” she asks her lover as they drive out of King’s Landing far too quickly in Jaime’s vintage convertible sports car. It is unseasonably warm, the sun descending in the sky, and she feels her white silk blouse sticking damply to her back. 

 

“Be patient, lovely one,” he smirks, drumming long fingers on the polished wood of the steering wheel, and she huffs out a laugh. A curl of pleasure settles low in her belly at the languid drawl of his voice; it reminds her of lazy afternoons tangled in luxurious cotton sheets from the Summer Isles, of his mischievous laughter as she pleads with him, and she thinks that was his intention, as she shifts impatiently, her black sheath skirt riding up her thighs, her blood thrumming. 

 

“Jaime,” she murmurs, the plea tumbling from her lips before she is entirely aware of it. 

 

“Do you trust me?” he replies, a hint of gravel in his tone, as he accelerates on the coastal road, letting the powerful engine loose, and the whole car vibrates. She looks at him, at his golden hair ruffled by the wind, the way his sunglasses hide his gaze from her (but she can imagine it all too well, heated and intent), the cut of his jaw, of his cheekbones, and her eyes linger upon his lips, remembering the glorious taste of him, the way he makes her feel. Her lover is a powerful man, one of the best polo players in the world, but he is always so gentle with her, and she knows, she is amongst those lucky few to know and understand that there is more to him than the sportsman.

 

“Of course,” she replies solemnly.

 

“Then be _patient_ , Sansa,” he reiterates, grinning, making her breath catch, and her eyes narrow.

 

Two can play this game. “Will I be rewarded if I am, _Sir_?” she retorts teasingly, lowering her voice to a husky murmur, and she has the distinct pleasure of seeing his hands whiten and tighten their grip on the wheel.

 

“Sansa…” he warns. “Don’t start something we won’t be able to finish now, _my lady._ ” There’s a dark edge to his words, the dark edge she so delights in pushing him towards, and her pulse accelerates in anticipation, an anticipation that only increases when he places his warm hand on the top of her thigh, and exerts a light pressure. He is asking for her patience, for her trust, and she relaxes under his caress, languidly enjoying the way his touch, his words heat her blood, a delighted smile lighting up her face as she settles back in the cream leather seat. 

 

After some fifteen minutes more they arrive at a small pleasure marina, tucked away in the bay, a multitude of yachts tied up to the art deco pier. Jaime parks, nonchalantly tosses the keys to a concierge wearing a short-sleeved golf shirt, palm tree-printed surf shorts and deck shoes, and then opens the passenger door for her. She stumbles out of the car even though she’s wearing wedge espadrilles instead of stilettos, as she normally does during the working day, almost dizzy and delirious, the only thing grounding her is the solid strength of Jaime’s arm around her waist, tucking her snugly into his side, and she can only trip along as he leads her confidently along the pier to a gleaming classic yacht, a single masted beauty, an old fashioned open cockpit at the stern, the cabin long and fluted, with a deck at the bow for lounging about on.  

 

“We’re going sailing?” She knows he loves the open water, and she wouldn’t put it past him to have organised a fancy picnic under the sea stars, but he only smiles enigmatically.

 

“For a little while,” he replies, and then she yelps as he lifts her up into his arms and then walks up the gangplank.

 

“You are a ridiculous man,” she says, leaning her head against his shoulder. “My ridiculous man,” she continues in a soft murmur, pressing a fluttering kiss to his neck, and she feels him swallow, a flush creeping up to his ears. He deposits her gently on the back deck with a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, and a hand swept languidly down her side, and she clutches desperately at the handrail whilst he dashes back to the pier to pick up their weekend bags and place them on the floor in the cabin. 

 

Then they set off; using the motor to glide out of the marina, and opening the sail once they get to open water. The tension in her body simmers down to a more manageable level as she watches him pilot the yacht, the fluid, energetic way he moves, spins the great wheel, a delighted, boyish grin on his face. She admires the play of the muscles of his back under his white shirt. His sleeves are partially rolled up, the cloth folded casually back. And then it rockets right up again as he extends a hand to her.

 

“Do you want to see where we’re going, my love?” he asks with a wicked grin, and she is drawn to him, a moth to the flame, and as the fingers of one hand curl around hers, the other drifts an exquisite caress across her back, sweeping her loose hair out of the way, until he has pinned her to the wheel with his frame, curling her fingers around the spokes, ropes fastened to stop them drifting away from their bearing. She shivers, feeling the way the full length of his body presses into hers. “Look straight ahead, darling,” he whispers into her ear. “That island in front of us - that’s where we’re going. Specifically,” he drawls between heated kisses to her neck that make her arc back into him, trembling, “a lovely… secluded… beach house I own… no neighbours… no city… only the two of us…”

 

She melts into him with a whimper. “Jaime -

 

“Hush, lovely one,” he soothes, trailing his fingertips in achingly light caresses down her sides until she is all but squirming against him. He nips at her earlobe in warning. “Be patient,” he growls, and she stills instantly, quivering, forcing herself to immobility, her core clenching at his words. “Don’t move,” he commands as he slips a muscled leg between hers to nudge her feet further apart, and she moans helplessly, her head falling forward to rest on the wheel itself. 

 

He is pinning her to the wood with his legs and his hips and his dark, decadent words, his breath heated on the back of her neck as his hands fluidly untuck her silk blouse, before his left hand teases its way up her ribcage to cup a breast with one large, calloused hand, and she bites back a moan. The other slides down her waist, over her hip to play with the hem of her skirt, his fingers tracing a teasing, torturous pattern into her soft skin. Languidly, excruciatingly slowly, he pushes her skirt up her thighs, her hips, until it is bunched at her waist, and she squirms and mewls, desperately dragging air into her lungs.

 

“Oh, you naughty thing,” he growls into her ear. “No underwear, my lady?” he drawls, and she laughs breathlessly in reply. He sounds entirely wrecked, and it’s all her doing, she thinks proudly. “I’ve half a mind to strip you entirely and _tie_ you to the wheel for the weekend.”

 

“Jaime…” she mewls, her pulse skittering, her mind dizzy at the thought.

 

“Such sweet words, my lovely one,” he rasps. “You are always so sweet, so entirely lovely. I cannot get enough of you.” She all but collapses against him, moaning, as his right hand drifts between her legs, stroking lightly. She feels how hard he is against her, straining against the material of his tailored navy trousers, but he makes no move to free himself, instead choosing to drive her mercilessly to a delirium of ecstasy with his voice and his skilled, teasing hands. Only then, when she is languid and struggling to catch her breath, warmth swirling in her veins, does he lean his torso back and unbuckle his belt, and her hands convulse around the spokes. She hears him lower his fly, and he hisses when he is finally free, hard and hot and long against her buttocks. 

 

And then, he does not move, his breathing harsh, one hand coming to wrap around her waist again, and she feels the tension in his muscles as he deliberately holds himself still. She squirms and arches against him again, her blood afire, a strangled moan falling from her lips as he nips her neck once more. “Be _patient,_ ” he forces out, his voice an octave deeper, and she whines in maddened, hazy frustration.

 

“Jaime, _please!_ ”

 

“Please, what?” She doesn’t know how he can reply so evenly. She knows how harshly he’s breathing. 

 

“Please take me, I can’t bear it!”

 

Her only answer is a low laugh. Wicked, wicked, teasing, insufferable man! And how she loves him for it. 

 

“Ask nicely, my lady,” he continues ruthlessly, kissing her shoulder, and the tenderness in his gesture makes her capitulate.

 

“Please may you make love to me, Sir Jaime?” she asks breathlessly, and she feels more than hears him hum his approval. 

 

She almost crows with triumph as he parts her with teasing fingers, dipping into her with a _fuck, Sansa, so wet, so hot, Sansa -_ the exclamation muffled in her hair, and when he at last thrusts into her, the heat and drag of him deep inside her makes her toes curl. He is ardent and tender and fierce and _maddening_ all at once, and her head spins as he begins to move, deep and controlled and she mewls and melts against him with every powerful roll of his hips, revelling in the way his touch, the languid growl of his voice, makes delight spark in her veins, breathless, delirious ecstasy dance into her skin, coil heatedly in her core.

 

She lets go of the wheel spoke with one hand so she can tangle her fingers with his and bring his palm up to rest against her racing heart, and his cheek comes to rest against hers, even as he continues his remorseless rhythm, and she can only tighten her grip and enjoy his possession of her, all-consuming, infuriating, searingly intense as it is. She surrenders wholeheartedly, delighting in the feel of him moving inside her, in the way he has wrapped himself around her, in the way his voice is honey and velvet and gravel; dark and tender by turns, encouraging, praising, commanding, as he drives her over that cliff, falling with her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is sunset when he ends up carrying her ashore to the beach house, languid with the memory of shattering pleasure thrumming through her veins, her head lolling back against his shoulder, fingers teasing the gold hair at the nape of his neck. Vaguely, she wonders what else he has planned for the Lover’s Day festival.

 

They end up spending the entirety of the long weekend tangled together in bed, french windows flung open wide so they can hear the distant, soothing roar of the surf, the gentle breeze fluttering the gauzy curtains, her fingers twisting in the sheets, clutching feverishly at his shoulders, gripping at his hair, her lithe legs now wrapped around his waist, now lifted over his shoulders, the glorious sound of his voice in her ear, his tongue kissing and licking praise and worship into her skin. And always him, setting her afire, bringing her to life, even as she drowns is reborn in the green of his eyes, only him.

 

She doesn’t need that sundress after all.

 

Or the kimono, or the oversized shirt, or the white jacquard jumpsuit. 

 

She doesn’t need any of it.

 

She only needs the drugging feel of his bare skin against hers, his lips on hers, his voice glorious and heated in her ear, and him inside her, again and again and again.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

It becomes their private little ritual, repeated every year of their lives, it is their constant through the stress of their wedding, of polo championships and Sansa’s career as a classical musician, families who cannot stand each other, four children, and later grandchildren too.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	6. A Time for Patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This was written for day 4 of the Jaimsa Smut Week on Tumblr. The prompt was 'jealousy'. This instalment isn't very smutty at all, really, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

* * *

 

 

A TIME FOR PATIENCE

 

* * *

 

 

SANSA STARK

 

 

She might be young, at six-and-ten, but she is not an idiot. She knows Jaime Lannister has no wish to marry her. She knows he is his sister’s lover. But it is a way out of King’s Landing, a way away from Joffrey and Cersei and the boorish King Robert Baratheon, away from her father who killed Lady her direwolf, away from her mother who told her nothing of the games they play in the South, away from Petyr Baelish, who makes her skin crawl. As repayment for her mother capturing Tyrion Lannister; Ser Jaime is to be released from the Kingsguard and Sansa is to marry him.  

 

It is the chance to have a family of her own, one day.

 

So she agrees.

 

Besides, when her husband is not absent, which is often, he is strangely kind to her. Distant, and uncertain in his handling of her (which makes two of them - she has no idea how to handle him either, though she wants to learn), but not cruel. Far more gentle and patient than she might have expected from one of the finest swordsmen in the realm. He has no talent for manipulation either, which after her time in the capital is a relief. 

 

All these things have the disadvantage of making her staying indifferent to him very difficult.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Sansa,” he sighs wearily, and her hands halt upon the ties of her chemise. She turns to look at him, where he is slumped tiredly in a chair. It is the first time they have been alone - there had been no time before the wedding. 

 

“My lord?” she replies evenly. 

 

“I… cannot give you what you seek.”

 

Her fingers shake. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I cannot love you.”

 

Well, if he is going to be so blunt, so honest, she can do the same in return.

 

“I know,” she says, and his green eyes widen. He hadn’t expected that to be her answer, she knows. “You love another - and from what I have seen of her husband I do not begrudge either of you your feelings.”

 

He chokes on his wine, and she primly seats herself at his side and pats his back, registering absently the warmth he radiates, until his coughing fit ceases. He looks at her with undisguised astonishment. “You cannot mean that.”

 

“I do,” she replies honestly, before taking a deep breath to gather her courage and continue. “I want this to work. Our marriage is no-one’s business but our own, and I want to be a good wife to you. If you tell me what you want from me I will do my best to give it to you.”

 

“And what do you want?”

 

“To never set foot in King’s Landing again,” she swallows nervously, aware of his intent gaze upon her, “and a child.” Her hands clench. “I would like a child, and you are the only person who can give that to me.”

 

“You could have an affair,” he points out, a sardonic twist to his lips that she is not certain she likes.

 

“I could,” she agrees breezily, before her voice takes on a more bitter tone, “except I have no wish to ever again be called the Northern Whore, or wolf-bitch - ” she sees him stiffen at her words and she wonders at it “ - as I was in King’s Landing during my father’s captivity.” A sly grin flits across her face. “I was not what you were expecting, was I, my lord?”

 

A genuine chuckle falls from his lips at that and her heart leaps at the sound. “No - well, to tell the truth, I had no idea what to expect of you,” he admits, leaning back in his chair, lazily turning his head to look at her and consider her properly. 

 

“A child is the only thing I will ever ask of you, my lord,” she says solemnly, and there is a long, tense silence before he nods sharply and stands in a single, fluid movement, offering her his hand. 

 

She takes it, shivering at the feel of his warm, large, calloused hand holding hers. 

 

“Thank you, Sansa,” he says quietly, and her gaze snaps up to meet his. “For being so accommodating - not many would have been,” he clarifies. 

 

She shrugs elegantly. “I am your wife.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Whenever he visits her bed she welcomes him with open arms, and not merely because she wants a child, but also because it is the only moment wherein he allows himself to show her open affection, and she reciprocates wholeheartedly, and curling asleep in his arms is when she is happiest, when she allows herself to hope - if she just has patience, perhaps things might one day change. Perhaps, in time, they might be friends. She does not ever dare to admit to wanting more, to wanting love. 

 

She does realise that King’s Landing has not entirely killed the open-hearted little girl she once was, but it is not until the end of the second month of her marriage, when she wakes once more alone, to cold sheets (he never stays until dawn), and feels more than the bite of loneliness, feels instead the deepest ache of misery, that she realises that she has somehow managed to fall in love with her husband.

 

And then she does feel like an idiot. 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as the maesters confirm that she is with child, she leaves King’s Landing for Casterly Rock with an escort of two Lannister legions, and her heart soars to leave the stink of the city at long last.

 

Her husband does not accompany her, and their farewell is cordial, if stilted. 

 

* * *

 

 

The Rock is a haven; the thick walls keep out the bad memories, and she spends most of her time either enjoying the gardens, the beaches, playing her instruments, or learning from her good-father Lord Tywin how to manage the fortress. She discovers she has an aptitude for it, and is pleased that she is proving herself capable in that respect. 

 

She is looking through old cradles one day when she comes across a silver rattle; a beautiful thing, and when she asks one of the old retainers where is came from the answer makes her stomach drop. It is not enough that it was apparently Jaime’s as a baby, but also that Cersei would always make a grab for it, and that is when she realises the sheer futility of her hopes.

 

How can she compete? How can she possibly compete with such an intense relationship?

 

* * *

 

 

To stop herself going mad with envy and despair, she begins to write down the tales of Winterfell she wants her child to know. Childbirth is a dangerous business, she knows, and at the Rock she is watched constantly. She doesn’t mind, not really. It comforts her to know that she is being looked after, even if she is only considered a broodmare by the Westermen. She writes down the stories Old Nan used to scare them with, she writes down all the adventures her brothers and Arya would get into. 

 

She writes about herself, too - she wants her child to know her, too. She wants her child to know how fiercely it is loved. 

 

(she does not want to be forgotten)

 

She is afraid. (afraid and alone)

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Our daughter is a gift, my lord. Thank you._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her husband returns to the Rock when Joanna is almost half a year old. She is a gentle, sweet baby, with a serious gleam of intelligence in her green eyes, and Sansa lives for her daughter’s trilling laughter. 

 

Jaime is quickly besotted by his russet-haired daughter, spending hours and hours upon end with her, and Sansa feels hope rise once more in her chest, only to have those hopes dashed once she learns, accidentally overhearing a conversation between Jaime and his father, that her husband has only returned to the Rock upon the orders of Tywin Lannister.

 

Tywin Lannister wishes for a male heir. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Birthing the twins is long and difficult, but she pulls through in the end, and presents her good-father with a grandson and a second granddaughter. 

 

She remembers how taken her husband was with their eldest daughter, and invites him to return. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He does return, only, it seems, to impregnate her once more upon his father’s orders. He spends the least amount of time possible with her, and she spends her third pregnancy in a haze of despair. 

 

Not even her children can cheer her up for long. She forces herself to keep up her strength by eating well and keeping her regimen of beachside walks for as long into the pregnancy as she can. 

 

Even her good-father notices her sadness, and calls her in to his solar one afternoon to ask about it. 

 

“I love your son,” she says, her voice quiet, though it does not waver. “I love Jaime, and I miss him, but I would ask you not to recall him - oh, he would return if you gave the order, but it would only cause him resentment, and I do not want him to resent me.” And then she sweeps away, back to her children, leaving Tywin Lannister staring after her with an astonished, considering look upon his countenance. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When her birthing contractions begin, over a month early, she knows, instinctively, the danger she is in. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

JAIME LANNISTER

 

 

_Ride for the Rock immediately, Jaime. Whatever your estrangement with your wife, you will regret it if you do not come._

 

Feeling unsettled, he obeys his father’s missive despite Cersei’s screaming protests, and three days furious ride later, he is at the Rock. The hushed, tense silence inside the fortress makes him shiver as he takes the stairs three at a time. The servants’ faces are pinched and they do not speak to him. Worse still is the grim pallor of his father’s countenance as he paces in front of Sansa’s door.

 

“How bad is it?” he asks hoarsely, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. 

 

The barest glimmer of sympathy appears in his father’s eyes. “She does not have long.”

 

He swallows harshly, the sudden ringing in his ears making him dizzy. “And the babe?”

 

His father only shakes his head, and Jaime staggers to brace himself against the wall.

 

* * *

 

 

It is with some trepidation that he enters the birthing chamber, feeling sick to the bone as he observes the chamber maids carrying linen stained dark with blood. His wife lies pale upon the bed, whiter than her shift, her bright hair lank and matted. She stirs when he approaches, a beatific smile upon her face as she discerns the identity of her visitor.

 

“Jaime,” she breathes, her voice cracking, “you came,” and he gently climbs into the bed beside her, nausea twisting his stomach. “I wasn’t certain…” she trails off, eyelashes fluttering, and he bows his head, feeling the full weight of the accusation for the first time, and he feels the most abject self-disgust. When he’d first held Joanna, he’d thought that perhaps he’d been mistaken to stay in King’s Landing, away from his wife and daughter, but had quickly brushed the sentiment away, dismissing it as momentary insanity. 

 

“I am so, so, so sorry, sweet wife,” he chokes, blinking away sudden tears, his lips trembling as he presses a kiss to her damp forehead. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

 

“I forgave you… a long time ago,” she replies, her ribcage stuttering with the effort. With difficulty, she turns her head to look at him. “I love you, you know,” she continues tremulously, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears, and his own heart wrenches. 

 

“I know,” he answers solemnly, and she freezes, before exhaling in a deliberately calm manner, squeezing her eyes shut. Bile rises in his throat when he understands he’s hurt her once more and he realises with despair that it seems he is destined to hurt her no matter his intentions or his actions. 

 

“Will you tell the children about me?” she asks, her eyes still shut. She can hardly bear to look at him, he realises - and no wonder! He has been a horrible husband to her.

 

“I vow it, Sansa,” he replies fiercely and her eyes snap open. He swallows unsteadily at the depth of feeling he sees in her glimmering gaze. She is looking at him as though he is sun and moon and stars all at once, and he has never felt more unworthy, more despicable, in his life. Tentatively, he reaches out to place a palm to her cheek, fingertips covering her ear, and feels her shudder into the caress. “I vow it. You will not be forgotten. They will know how fiercely you loved them, how devoted a mother and wife you were, I vow it to you.” A pleased, embarrassed blush, violent against her pallor, pinks her cheeks.

 

“Can you hold me? I - I’ve missed you,” she whispers nervously, and he is mortified to remember how he would hold her until she fell asleep and then slip away, leaving her to wake alone. He replies by gently, carefully bringing her body against his. A choked, half-sobbed, broken little sigh of pleasure leaves her lips as he settles her in his embrace, and he kisses her forehead again. 

 

He can feel every pained, rattled breath she takes, and vicious shame burns through his veins. He is tender with her, kissing her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, her chin, her lips. 

 

When he wakes in the morning her body is cold.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

His father hands him a plain, leather-bound set of books, with an even _they belonged to her - I suggest you read them._

 

What he finds is nothing less than an account of her life as his wife, interspersed with snippets of poetry he gathers are her own, illustrations, sketches for embroidery that he recognises upon various shirts of his with a lump of lead in his stomach, or upon his children’s clothes. There are “Old Nan’s Stories” of the Old North, there are tales of Sansa and her siblings as children, but what he keeps coming back to are those parts where she details her life with him and their children. At first, reading about her hopes, her fears (she’d devoted herself to learning him, to attempting to please him), her joy at their children’s accomplishments - every movement, every word is recorded - her accounts of the day-to-day running of the castle, her selfless, overwhelming love for him, her envy of Cersei, her despair, it feels like a justified, prolonged exercise in self-castigation. Her last words _I am afraid and alone, I am going to die, I want him, I need him, I love him and he isn’t here, I am a stupid fool_ play over and over again in his mind, a litany of self-recrimination. 

 

When he reads her writings again, he discovers a lady with a talent for artistry - be it music or drawing or embroidery or prose or poetry - with an extraordinarily generous, loving heart, with northern steel in her veins yet gentle, with a sharp, clever wit, though it is never cruel. 

 

That is when he begins dreaming of her, of their nights together, of a future they will never have, but it is only when he wakes with tears in his eyes and a hollow ache in his chest that he realises he’s managed to fall in love with her, now that it is too late. 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	7. A Time for Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let us live. 
> 
> because you can never have too many Greek Mythology!AUs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this next little one shot, written for day five of the Jaimsa Smut Week on tumblr. The prompt was 'first time', and I hope you all like this. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

_A time for living_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

JAIME

 

They call him the Lion to his face and the destroyer of men, the father of tears, the gold-broker of corpses behind his back - _he!_ the God of War, son of Tywin the Great Lion, primordial deity, he the brother to Tyrion the dwarf-God who is the master of the Forge, though he competes with Robert, God of Wine and Whores and Debauchery, for a title not his own. His elder sister is Cersei, Goddess of Discord, and all three of them are giving him a headache. 

 

He cares nothing for this feast; it is a feast exactly like the thousands of feasts that have preceded it and is exactly as those feasts which will undoubtedly follow in the future. And so he finds himself insufferably bored, in a bad mood, sick of the supercilious, fearing gazes of the other immortals, and he has had enough. 

 

He takes himself off to one of the terraced courtyards, hoping for some tranquility, muttering to himself about the idiocy of Cersei’s latest plot, about how he has absolutely no patience for yet another of Tyrion’s bitter, acerbic comments on any topic whatsoever, Robert’s bellowed _wine, more wine, you fools_ pounding his mind to pulp. 

 

To his marked annoyance, the courtyard is not empty. 

 

Another immortal is already lounging around the fountains. 

 

His mouth is suddenly dry, his breathing harsh, and all thoughts of boredom and frustration fly out of his mind. Lust sears through him like a lance to the thigh, and all but fails to bring him to his knees. 

 

He has stumbled upon the elusive Goddess of Love and Beauty, Sansa. And he has stumbled upon her as she bathes, the sheer silk of her gown wet against her skin, leaving virtually nothing to the imagination, her bright russet hair dark against her skull, sunset fire in the still water of the fountain. He knows almost nothing about her - except that she is unhappily married to Tyrion his brother, and spends the majority of her time avoiding males. They have never spoken, never even been in the vicinity of one another, until now.

 

She turns her head, and he admires the grace of her movement, and then he swallows violently as their gazes meet. Her expression holds none of the accusation he expects - instead she is only curious, and he thinks dimly that she is truly the sunset, the dark blue of her eyes drawing him in, and he steps forward, feeling brutish and ungainly in comparison. 

 

“Forgive me, my lady - I did not - I did not think this courtyard was occupied.”

 

Laughter flickers in her eyes, and a secretive smile touches a corner of her mouth. “I can’t say I’ve been accused of being invisible before,” she replies wryly, and Jaime pales, belatedly realising that his apology might well be construed as an insult. 

 

“I meant no slight - I only - ”

 

Her smile only widens. 

 

He growls, frustrated that he is so tongue-tied in her presence. “I only wished for some solitude from those fools in the hall.”

 

Sympathy bleeds into her expression and she extends a dainty hand. “You can come closer, you realise?” She says, her voice gentle, her tones curled with dry amusement. “I am not Lyanna of the Wood to turn all those who stumble into my presence into stags and then have them torn to shreds by their own hounds, nor Arya to bring death.” She grins impishly. “My wrath is colder, though more judiciously applied.” 

 

He does so, and gingerly lowers himself onto the marble of the fountain’s edge. She remains in the water, and were it not for her radiance and the melancholy in her gaze he would have thought her a frolicking siren. “I won’t tell anyone you’re hiding here if you do the same for me,” she continues playfully, and that jolts a surprised laugh from him.

 

He takes her smaller hand in his. “We have an accord,” he winks, and the goddess of love, caught off guard, blushes. 

 

“You are kinder than your brother,” she murmurs, and he startles.

 

“Now you are flattering me.”

 

She raises a sculpted eyebrow. “No, I am not. Tyrion thinks I dislike him because he is a dwarf, ugly and twisted, but in truth I dislike him for the cruel wit of his words.” She scoffs bitterly, and he can only watch and listen, amazed. “But of course the goddess of beauty and love must be vain and shallow, ready to shag everything in indiscriminate lust, because beauty is only skin-deep, of course, and love is an evil construct.”

 

“You deny him?” He doesn’t know what possesses him to ask the question.

 

“I do not want him; I have never wanted him, and it offends him, of course. Oh, the cup of marriage is bitter and acrid indeed.” Her eyes flash with rage, and he finds himself drawn to her, intrigued, not warned off. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he replies, in a voice more gentle than he has used in an age. “I think I understand something of what you feel… I am the Lion, the God of War to my face, and the gold-broker of corpses behind my back.”

 

She kneels in the water and cups his cheeks with her delicate hands, and, trembling, he meets her sunset gaze, relishing the feel of her smooth skin against his. “They are the shallow ones,” she whispers against his lips, and he sighs as her sweet breath caresses his face.

 

“Not us,” he agrees solemnly, “not us.”

 

“Jaime,” she murmurs. It is the first time she says his name, and his belly coils and twists. 

 

“Sansa,” he replies, equally solemnly. His hands tremble at his sides. “May I hold you?” he dares.

 

Her reply is more than he could ever have hoped. 

 

“My dear God of War, you may do with me whatever you please.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He teleports them to his palace, an airy, secluded villa upon the pantheon’s sacred slopes, with gardens filled with apricot trees and whitewashed walls hung with gleaming weaponry, golden mosaics decorating his floors with scenes of life, in all its visceral glory, depicting the passion and tragedy of mortal existence. The Goddess of Love and Beauty is intrigued rather than revolted, trailing white fingers upon the small squares. 

 

“Why do mortals war, I wonder?” she muses, her brow furrowed in a manner Jaime finds most endearing. “When you fight, when you cross swords with another, Jaime, how do you feel?”

 

“Alive,” he answers hoarsely. “Alive, I feel alive. It makes the ichor race through my veins.”

 

“Why do mortals love, if it brings with it such suffering?” she continues ruefully, straightening before answering her own question. “They love because to love is to live. To fight is to live, and we are gods of movement, yet immortal and therefore unchanging and eternal.”

 

“I know, my lady,” he answers. It is the conundrum he has always wrestled with. He draws a teasing finger down her white arm, enjoying her shiver, the way she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip to prevent a moan from escaping, and he chuckles, a touch wickedly. “Now, my Sansa, enough of melancholy.” He extends his hand to her, and she tangles her fingers with his, even as he raises his other hand to her jaw, stepping closer so their torsos touch.

 

“Shall we live?” he asks, leaning to pose his question against her very lips. 

 

“Yes. _Yes._ ”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

SANSA

 

 

She is not habitually so impulsive, she thinks, as she disrobes under the God of War’s heated, appreciative gaze. But the instant, overwhelming sense of affinity she feels with him meant any other conclusion was impossible. He’d been so discombobulated, she remembers, giggling, so wrong-footed, expecting her fury instead of her curiosity. 

She grins, her heart light, as he treads silently around her like the predator he is, inhaling sharply as he brushes her still-wet hair aside to lay chaste kisses on her shoulder, her collarbone, the elegant length of her neck. He nips at her earlobe, the heat and scent of him dizzying, and she staggers into his muscled frame, sighing her approval, his calloused hands at her bare waist the only things holding her up at all.

The world tilts and spins as he sweeps her into his arms and carries her, emerald eyes burning, to his bed. He looms over her, golden hair ruffled, as naked as she is, a rakish, leonine expression upon his face, and she looks up at him, bright eyed. It might be the middle of the afternoon, but she cares not; the sunlight only illuminates her lover more clearly, and her eyes linger hotly over the fierce elegance of his body. Her hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders and up his neck to toy with the golden hair at his nape, and he shivers under her touch, swallowing harshly.

“Bring me back to life,” she says softly, and his expression turns intent as he finally lowers his body to hers, and she cries out with the joy of feeling the warmth of his skin against hers, his chest against hers, his substantial length hot and hard against her stomach, their legs tangling together.

“With pleasure,” he replies, before capturing her lips with his in a searing, ardent kiss that renders her delirious and gasping. Her fingers tighten in his hair in retaliation, and his laughing growl makes her arch against him, mewling as he deepens the kiss to something still more ardent and consuming than before. She gasps to breathe and he takes advantage of this to leave a trail of fire upon her skin as he kisses his way down her neck, down to her breasts, teasing her mercilessly by nipping at the soft undersides, and a strangled moan escapes her and she tightens her grip on him as he brings his gloriously wicked mouth to her pink nipples, suckling them to hard points that make her shiver whenever they brush his tanned skin. She squirms against him, breathless, dizzy, _longing_ for him.

“In me,” she gasps out, the coil of pleasure low in her belly spiralling. “In me, Jaime, I need you in me-”

“Now?” he drawls, an eyebrow raised smugly, and she lightly whacks his upper arm.

“The Fates help me, Jaime - ” she growls, impatient. 

“My lady’s command,” he replies, settling between her creamy thighs, before entering her in a smooth, swift thrust that makes the sunlight dance behind her eyes and the breath leave her chest, and she winds herself around him, mewling at the glorious feel of him in her, drawing him closer, only vaguely hearing his muttered curses and praise of her, in a dark, tender voice. He rests his cheek next to hers, and she clutches at him as he at last begins to move, setting a sensual, languid pace that she adores and finds maddening at the same time. 

She forgets everything - her miserable marriage, the way every man, mortal and immortal, seems to find it their birthright to leer at her - and surrenders to the way the God of War makes her feel as he moves deeply, skilfully within her. Under his touch and affection she is a person, not a trophy, an abstraction; and that drawling growl of his, with its hint of darkness and danger, a promise of retribution, tempered by his passion and dry amusement, his frustration, so similar to hers, brings her back from impassive statue to a goddess, alive and passionate. She reciprocates, fiercely, tenderly, desperately, clutching at his shoulders, his back, his buttocks, encouraging him, praising him, moving with him as they bring each other to a consuming, shattering delirium. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Their affair lasts centuries; it survives Tyrion playing a cruel, dirty trick on them with the enchanted net, it survives the disapproval of the other gods, the countless propositions Sansa gets, it survives their nine children, it survives their youngest daughter being raped by one of the mortal offspring of the Ironborn gods of the Sea, it survives the chaos caused by the cursed necklace presented as a wedding gift (Jaime believes, though he never finds certain proof) by Tyrion at their eldest daughter’s nuptials. 

 

Their affair survives it all.   

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	8. A TIME FOR ICE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb swallows uncomfortably. "I'm going to retire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I hope you enjoy this next little one-shot. I know I should probably have updated 'There is no turning back' first (the chapter is on its way, I promise), but RL has been really really shitty - on its way to being resolved now, but some stuff happened that I wasn't expecting and it completely threw me off. I have also completely fallen down the ice dancing rabbit hole, so yeah. I thought it would be a really cool way of exploring the tensions in the relationship between Sansa and Robb, amongst other things.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

A TIME FOR ICE

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

SANSA STARK

 

 

Practice is horrible, so horrible that at the end of it Sansa slumps dejectedly on the bench, forcing traitorous tears away, swallowing them viciously back down her throat. She is not about to cry in public, even though her partner and elder brother Robb has never been this distant with her before. Every hold impersonal, every move lacklustre, and he’d dropped her so many times that eventually their coaches, Jaime and Cersei Lannister, had called a halt to training, brows furrowed, voices hoarse. 

 

Everyone has told them, and done so for years, that siblings shouldn’t and can’t skate together, that she was better off leaving her brothers to hockey and figure skating on her own. Jaime and Cersei had been the sole exception; winning the Olympics three times, dominating the sport, before retiring to Lannisport and starting their own skating school four years ago. Sansa had thought that her and Robb could follow in the Lannisters’ footsteps. That had been the whole reason for moving from their previous training centre at the Eyrie, coached by their Aunt Lysa and Petyr Baelish, to Lannisport, three years before.

 

Sansa is now eighteen, Robb twenty-one, and the Olympics are in six months. She cannot afford to have Robb blanking her out now. 

 

Suddenly furious, she steps back out onto the ice and skates aggressively over to where Robb is being berated by their coaches. He doesn’t look like he’s taking any of it in, Sansa realises with a sinking heart. He’s simply staring blankly ahead, arms crossed, a defiant expression set into his face.

 

“What the _fuck_ was that, Robb?” she cries, seizing his arms, forcing him to look at her. Jaime and Cersei move instinctively away at her vehemence, slightly stunned at her swearing. “Look at me, Robb,” she growls, and that makes him look at her, something ashamed and sheepish flits across his face. “Tell me what that was.”

 

“I’m sorry San,” he replies eventually, sighing heavily. “I got some bad news today, that’s all.”

 

“What bad news?” her eyes narrow, and their identical blue gazes lock, and he flinches. Her voice trembles. “What could possibly be so bad that you drop me like that on the last rotational? Robb, you could have _killed_ me.” She’d never felt fear like it, seeing the white ice rushing up to meet her head, and only Jaime and Cersei’s intervention had prevented her from slicing her face open on her brother’s blade. 

 

He flinches again. 

 

“I’m your skating partner, not just your little sister,” she insists. “Tell me, now.”

 

“Yes, we’d be very interested to hear as well, Robb,” Jaime drawls, his arm loosely slung over his sister’s shoulder. Robb shoots him a glare, but capitulates when the Lannister continues. “As soon as you brought it onto the ice, it was no longer personal. Sansa deserves to know.”

 

“I - I I’m going to be a father,” he rushes out. 

 

Sansa’s mind goes entirely quiet. She doesn’t understand. Yes, twenty-one is young, but not unheard of, and Roslin - 

 

“Oh my gods,” she whispers, reeling. “Please tell me you haven’t cheated on her?” His refusal to answer tells her everything. “How _could_ you!”

 

“As if you’re any better, my sweet, angelic sister!” he retorts sarcastically. She gapes at him, struck utterly dumb at his words. “I know the real reason you wanted to leave the Eyrie, Harry told me.”

 

She freezes, struggling to speak. “Wh-what?” she forces out.

 

There’s a malicious glint in her brother’s eyes she’s never seen before, much less so furiously directed at her, and she’s abruptly terrified. 

 

“He saw you with Petyr that night.”

 

“Both of you, _enough!_ ” Cersei snaps, but Robb ignores her and barrels on. 

 

“He saw you kiss him, he saw how Petyr had his hand under your skirt, you little whore-

 

She shakes her head frantically, gasping. “No - I -

 

“You had an affair with our uncle aged fifteen and you want to lecture me on morality,” he scoffs.

 

“It wasn’t consensual!” she screams, shoving at him. “D’you hear me? It wasn’t consensual and he blackmailed me saying he would ruin both of our careers if I said anything, and I was fifteen, I was a child.”

 

She’s never shouted at her brother before, she realises dimly, vibrating with rage and heartbreak and humiliation, shoulders and chest heaving, but the worst thing is her brother looking at her as if she is some alien, foreign creature. There is a warm weight across her shoulders, and she vaguely registers that Cersei is holding her up as she shakes uncontrollably.

 

“Enough!” Jaime’s harsh tones cut through her like a blade, and she flinches, before her walls come slamming back up. Cersei begins to gently guide her across the ice.

 

“No,” she replies, her voice eerily calm, whirling around. “This is proving rather enlightening. Is there anything else you’d like to say to me, _brother dearest?_ ” 

 

Robb swallows uncomfortably. “I’m going to retire.”

 

“After the Olympics - for the baby?” 

 

“I don’t think that’s what your brother means, Sansa,” Jaime replies harshly, and it takes a moment for her to understand her mentor’s words. 

 

No. He can’t. He can’t abandon her like this. As if cheating on his girlfriend weren’t enough, he’s decided to rip his little sister’s career to shreds as well. 

 

“Who is she?” Sansa asks tonelessly. “She must be rather special if she’s worth cheating on Roslin and destroying my chances of a medal.”

 

He is so bewildered by her non sequitur that he answers her without thinking.

 

“Talisa? The physiotherapist?” she laughs hysterically, bitterly. 

 

“It wasn’t meant to happen!” Robb protests. “But now that it has I need to make it right. I’m going to marry her.”

 

She looks at her brother, her elder brother by three years, her childhood hero who shares her hair and her eyes, and is suddenly dizzy. “You fucking fool,” she whispers, wiping furiously at her eyes before skating away, looking to lick her wounds alone.

 

But she’s not fast enough because his parting shot makes her fall to her knees, adding to her already large collection of developing bruises, and vomit up her lunch, spattered greyly against the ice.

 

 _I only became your partner because Mother forced me to. The Olympics have always been your dream, not mine. I wanted to play hockey like Father, not spend all my time doing twizzles with my sister._  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She doesn’t call home; Ned Stark has never been an enthusiastic supporter of her career, not understanding why she can’t simply play ice hockey like the rest of her family, like Aunt Lyanna and her sister Arya ( _it’s what Northern women do, it’s what Stark women do, not this Western pansies shit)._ And she knows all too well that Mother will never side with her over Robb, her golden child. She also has an inkling that her youngest brother Rickon also wants to be a figure skater ( _he’d asked about coming to live with her and Robb in Lannisport the last time she went home to Winterfell and she will not jeopardise that for him_ ). 

 

She spends a day sitting in the silent flat ( _Robb is presumably at Talisa’s - she doesn’t care to know_ ), wondering what the hell she is meant to do now, and only when she gets Roslin’s text does she realise she’s perhaps being a bit selfish. 

 

_Did you know?_

 

_I told him to tell you himself, but no, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Rosy._

 

_Not your fault._

 

She just sits on her sofa staring at the trophies decorating the mantlepiece with silent tears running down her cheeks, entirely loosing track of time.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She blushes when she answers the door in an oversized _Winterfell Wolves_ hockey shirt and realises that Jaime and Cersei both are on her doorstep, but she nevertheless invites her mentors inside and wordlessly makes Jaime an espresso and Cersei a white chocolate hot chocolate. The Lannister siblings take the mugs with appreciative thanks, and she looks at them expectantly as she sits down opposite them at the hardwood kitchen table.

 

“We’ve been talking to the officials at Skate Seven,” Cersei begins, and Sansa swallows harshly, blinking back tears.

 

“And you’re here to tell me my stupid dream of Olympic gold is never going to happen.” She nods, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “Thank you for coming in person.”

 

“Actually, that isn’t what we’re here to tell you,” Jaime replies, a cautious glint in his green eyes, and her head snaps up to look at him, her jaw falling open.

 

“But there’s no-one else for me to partner!” she exclaims. “How - I - I don’t understand.”

 

“Well…” Cersei drawls, the corner of her mouth twitching. “There is one,” she says, her gaze sliding to her brother. 

 

She gapes in shock. “Jaime - you want me to partner Jaime?” Her gaze flies between the two of them, not understanding.

 

“It isn’t as if we haven’t partnered one another before,” the man offers lightly, and she flushes in response at the memory. Her birthday. 

 

“I thought you were humouring me,” she mumbles.

 

When he replies, his voice is infinitely gentle. “I don’t play mind games, Sansa.”

 

“No, my twin leaves that to me,” Cersei smirks, sipping her hot chocolate, eyes sparkling, and Sansa chokes out a scandalised laugh. “And there’s that wonderful smile we all love so much.”

 

“I - I don’t know what to say, I - ” she struggles to articulate, her fingers trembling and twisting. 

 

“You heard the rumours about why we retired so young, didn’t you?” Jaime continues solemnly, and she is so bewildered by the sudden change of subject that she can only nod. It had been quite the scandal; retiring at twenty-six because of that stupid newspaper article. “The truth is that once Arthur said he was going to propose to Cersei I knew she would never skate competitively again.”

 

“I was pregnant with Myrcella during the competition, though I hadn’t yet realised.” Cersei shrugs. “It felt like the right time to go.”

 

“And I’d always wanted to coach as well,” Jaime interjects, before his countenance closes. “And then that _stupid_ article.” She shivers at the violence in his voice. “Father found out Petyr Baelish was responsible for the insinuations and rumours. Cers and I had been watching your’s and Robb’s career for some time, and when we realised his plan was to play a similar trick on the two of you as revenge for your mother rejecting him when they were teenagers, we poached the two of you from the Eyrie.”

 

“So why come back? Why come out of retirement and partner me?” she frowns, fighting down a knot of apprehension in her stomach. “Do you want to fight for another medal?” 

 

“You don’t deserve to have your career ripped to shreds because your brother couldn’t keep his trousers fastened,” Jaime replies, a touch of menace in his cadence, and her eyes widen. “And I also enjoyed partnering you on your birthday, and would welcome the opportunity to do so again.”

 

“But how is all of this even possible?” 

 

It is Cersei who answers her bewildered question. “Skate Seven haven’t yet announced the official team they’ll be taking to the Olympics, and won’t until after Nationals ten weeks from now, at the very earliest.”

 

“So we have a shot,” Jaime finishes. 

 

She considers her new partner carefully. He might be twelve years her senior, but she trusts him. She trusts Cersei.

 

“Abandon me, Jaime, and I will eviscerate you.”

 

“Have you known me to be anything other than entirely committed?” he replies, undaunted.

 

 

* * *

 

 

       

 

   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	9. A TIME FOR CAMARADERIE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A TIME FOR ICE, PART II
> 
> She struggles with the choreography in a way she doesn't expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, by popular demand, please may I present part two of the ice dance!AU (started in the previous chapter) 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this little one shot, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

 

* * *

 

 

 

A TIME FOR CAMARADERIE (A TIME FOR ICE PART TWO)

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

SANSA STARK

 

 

Skating with Jaime is very different to skating with Robb. Rationally, she knows that, and she had expected it. But understanding it is something else entirely. She no longer has to deal with Robb’s monosyllabic grunts at five in the morning, whilst she waits for his three espressos to kick in, because her new partner, much like herself, is a morning person. Instead, she’s greeted every morning with a blindingly mischievous grin and a warm hug that she cannot help sinking into. Jaime rests his chin on the crown of her head, his voice still a touch roughened by sleep as he wishes her a good morning. 

 

Building a routine with him is easier than she expects; they spend forty-five minutes in the studio/gym attached to the rink for their warm-up before getting on to the ice. She’d trained separately to Robb, her brother preferring to make a beeline for the weights. Jaime’s version of a warm-up, she is surprised to see, isa mix of gymnastics, ballet and fencing, so they end up on opposite sides of the same mirrored room as she goes through her habitual sequence of supine stretches before moving on to barre exercises.

 

Only then do they step onto the ice, taking their time to skate gentle laps, hand in hand, and the feel of his warm skin against hers dries her mouth, that first day (and, if she’s being honest, every single day that follows too). And then Cersei joins them, Arthur too, on occasion, and their work begins in earnest. 

 

She struggles with the choreography in a way she doesn’t expect. A new partner ten weeks before Nationals means changing the programmes; but it means more than that. The steps themselves have to be changed; and they end up throwing out their existing music to pick entirely new pieces, which is insane but necessary. She is not about to dance with Jaime in the same way she danced with Robb. And she hadn’t realised what that would entail. 

 

Suddenly, the choreography is sensual where it was chaste, and passionate where before it was angry, and it isn’t so much the mental shift as the physical shift she finds disconcerting. Jaime holds her more closely than Robb ever did, the Lannister’s body against hers, his hands linger, on her hips, on the insides of her thighs as he lifts her into a rotational, at the nape of her neck as he rests his cheek on hers. She is reeling, breathless with exhilaration, grinning wildly as she realises that skating with him shouldn’t be this _easy,_ but it is somehow, and they are still in the improvisation phase of the choreography, trying various musical combinations out. He grins back at her, throwing his golden head back to laugh, and her stomach twists, her pulse skitters at the sound. _He feels it too. He looks alive._

 

They don’t consciously decide anything; they simply seem to fall into a pattern, a habit of lingering with their touches, with their eyes, with their embraces. And then Cersei picks up on it and deliberately choreographs what Sansa begins to think of as _Moments._ It doesn’t help, either, that the Short Dance this year imposes a choice of Latin rhythms, and she knows from the glint in her mentor’s eyes that the choreography won’t be shying away from things. 

 

It comes up outright in one of their first music selection sessions at Casterly Rock. Sansa spends most of her time there anyway, retreating really only to her empty-feeling Lannisport apartment to sleep. Her, Jaime and Cersei and Arthur are having lunch in one of the gardens at the Rock, Myrcella gallivanting happily around in the flowers when the topic is raised between spoonfuls of apricot sorbet (one of the only desserts Sansa allows herself on non-cheat days - although her eating regimen is much less strict now than it was in the Vale, when Petyr Baelish and her Aunt Lysa used to weigh her once a week and wrap measuring tape around her thighs, poking and prodding at her flesh in a way that still, three years on, makes her stomach roil with fear and nausea).

 

“The two of you have quite the connection, it seems,” Arthur says. “You’re doing it unconsciously, but I think it would be a good idea, not to play it up or exaggerate it, but to _lean in_ to it.”

 

Sansa blushes to the roots of her hair, violently. Jaime’s response, though she catches the minute widening of his gaze, is more assured. He leans back in his chair casually, winks at her, and drawls languidly, “I think we can manage that, can’t we, Sansa?”

 

She almost chokes on her lemonade but manages to nod in reply. 

 

“Excellent,” Jaime says evenly, before standing smoothly and offering his hand to her. She blinks in surprise before curling her small fingers around his, the corners of her mouth ticking up in a private smile. 

 

And it begins to pay off as their Latin programme comes together, all sharp edges and sensual, languid lines, with a touch of menace, a touch of lingering chill, that leave her wondering why she isn’t yet a melted puddle of goo at Jaime’s feet. Although she is meant to be seducing him, as their dance tells the legend of the seduction of the Night’s King by the Queen of Winter, she all too often finds herself the one seduced by him. He becomes far more tactile with her, too; a hand upon the small of her back as they walk down the corridor to physio, an arm casually draped over her shoulders as they speak to Cersei, a thumb brushing her collarbone as they head out into the city for lunch on rest days. 

 

Their Free Dance gives them far more trouble, simply because they have far too many ideas, and a resulting difficulty in narrowing them down. It needs to contrast with their other piece; but that hardly provides enough constraint. They dither about for some time; time they are very aware they do not have, until one day they are walking along the harbour front in Lannisport and Sansa confesses shyly, seeing a florist stall with rose wreaths, “I always wanted to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty when I was a child.”

 

Jaime only smiles, a touch wistfully. “I dreamed of being a knight, and then I was informed that sword fighting was something from a barbaric, forgotten age, but the notion of movement stayed with me, and then I was introduced to ice dancing, and well, as they say, the rest is history.”

 

“That’s it!” Sansa exclaims.

 

“I don’t follow,” he frowns.

 

She turns to him excitedly. “What’s your favourite epic?”

 

“The really tragic, gory one where because the prince’s younger brother runs off with another man’s wife he causes a war, and so the prince fights a duel to the death with the husband’s champion, dies, has his body desecrated, his beloved, faithful wife sold into slavery and his young son thrown from the battlements,” Jaime answers automatically. “I don’t recall the exact title; I was never the most avid reader.”

 

“So that’s the story we tell in our free dance,” Sansa smiles, her brow furrowing in thought. 

 

“What, I play the prince and you play my beloved wife? Are you trying to rip people’s hearts from their chests?”

 

There’s a determined, moved glint in her eyes. “Exactly.”

 

This takes some selling to Cersei and Arthur, but Jaime and Sansa wear them down by showing them snippets of choreography, including the final pose. It’s the first image they had in their minds, Sansa on her knees desperately cradling Jaime’s limp body, and the physical doing of it makes her heart twist uncomfortably in her chest. They choose to end their four minutes of storytelling with the end of the duel, as the Prince dies in the arms of his wife, instead of attempting to integrate the more convoluted parts of the storyline after his death. 

 

But it is only once they nail down their choice of music that Cersei and Arthur fully agree. 

 

Jaime, rather slyly, had suggested that since their Latin programme was inspired by a Northron, Stark legend, should they not use music from the Westerlands for their Free Dance, to make sure both of their origins are well-represented. Sansa had agreed, not expecting Jaime to select a full orchestra rendering of his family’s ancient anthem, _The Rains of Castamere_. But she listens to the music, and agrees that with its solemn, grand opening that builds towards something more fraught for the duelling section, and ending with a melancholy lament, the piece would suit their idea perfectly. 

 

Cersei listens to the whole thing in silence, a victorious gleam in her eyes by the end, but Arthur listens to the first bar and bursts out laughing, and Sansa knows that they’ve found their music, and the concept to go with it. 

 

Suddenly, despite her family drama, Sansa can’t wait to get out onto the ice and perform these two programmes. She can’t wait to win, with her partner Jaime by her side.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	10. A Time for Determination (A TIME FOR ICE PART III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are we being reckless?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome all to part three of my ice dancing!AU!
> 
> As always, ideas, comments, predictions are welcome!
> 
> enjoy xx

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

A TIME FOR DETERMINATION 

A TIME FOR ICE PART THREE

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

SANSA STARK

 

 

Normally, when she skates she can leave whatever is meant to remain off-ice, off the ice. But today is Robb’s wedding, and Sansa is in Lannisport instead of Winterfell. Today is Robb’s wedding and Roslin has spent the past hour throwing up her breakfast and her heartbreak in the changing room bathrooms, and Sansa feels slightly sick; the back of her neck is clammy. 

 

Jaime takes one look at the pallor of her skin and guides her to a quiet corridor, away from prying eyes, sitting beside her on the carpet, legs outstretched in front of him, even as she vaguely realises Cersei has gone to fish Roslin out of the changing rooms.

 

Her partner doesn’t speak, simply brushing his thumb soothingly across her nape, and she sighs quietly at his touch, shifting against where her phone presses against her leg, burning heatedly into her thigh, an unpleasant reminder of the outside world.

 

In the end, huffing with annoyance she removes the device from her pocket, unlocks it without looking at the screen, and passes it to Jaime, who takes it with concerned curiosity, his brow furrowing.

 

“Oh, Sansa,” he rasps, and she knows he’s seen the photograph of two hockey season tickets she posted to social media late last night - a wedding present to her brother and his new bride, as her training precludes her from making the trip. Except she hasn’t bought Robb tickets for the Winterfell Wolves - Robb’s favourite team, the one Uncle Benjen coaches, the one the whole Stark family supports - but for their worst rivals; the Wild Wanderers based beyond the Wall. Though her cousin Jon’s girlfriend Ygritte’s uncle Tormund is their star player, so Sansa supposes that is what most of the fans will pick up on. And this posted with the caption - _I hope you enjoy them whilst you still can._ A bit on the nose, perhaps - but she doesn’t care. 

 

What she does care far too much about, as much as she wishes she wouldn’t, are the numerous voicemails from her parents expressing their disappointment at her pettiness, that she should understand the struggles her brother has undergone etc etc. There’s a casually cutting one from Arya, and Sansa hopes that it’s because her younger sister is a self-absorbed teenager much like any other teenager, that Arya can’t possibly have understood the problem with the words _perhaps if Roslin was a proper Northerner then Robb wouldn’t have cheated on her because Roslin would have beaten him up had he tried._ The fact that Talisa is from Norvos and absolutely hates hockey aside - Sansa desperately hopes that this is evidence of Arya’s naive, black and white view of the world, entirely understandable for a fourteen year old, and not evidence of casual cruelty. 

 

Her aunt Lyanna’s voicemail had been screamingly vitriolic, and Sansa had almost flushed her phone down the loo in response, before coming to her senses and realising that she still needed her phone to communicate with her team here, even if she sometimes wishes she could cut herself off from her family entirely.

 

Her cousin Jon’s voicemail had been solemn and disappointed, but she’d heard Ygritte’s voice in the background telling her boyfriend not to be an idiot, and then thanking Sansa for giving her the excellent idea of making a Wild Wanderers fan out of Robb’s child, and that had cheered Sansa up a little. Her younger brothers Bran and Rickon have simply said on their shared phone call that they’re sorry she won’t be able to come, because they’ve missed her so much and when can they come and see her? Ygritte must be staying at Winterfell, because Sansa had overheard Ygritte, just before the end of the call, telling Bran and Rickon that she would fly them down in her own Cessna if the parents were disinclined to take them themselves.

 

Jaime’s voice, low and comforting, brings her back to the present. “I always knew you were the one with a brain, Sansa. They’ll come round.”

 

She laughs wetly, unable to articulate that deepest of fears, that her family do not - and she _wants_ their approval, their pride, by the gods does she want it, and it’s too painful to think that she might remain chasing something forever out of her reach. “And if they do not?”

 

His warm palm suddenly upon her cheek shocks her, and she swallows at the burning intensity in his gaze. “Then fuck them. We win our medal, and we continue with our lives.”

 

She’d be lying if the _winning our medal_ part, the _our lives -_ she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like the sound of that. The problem is that she likes the sound of that rather too much.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a fire in her belly that day, one that seems to be contagious, because even as she and Jaime hit every beat, every step, every gesture with an attack and a precision that seems more than grittily determined, it seems to be _there,_ in her mind, flowing in a way that seems instinctive, and she feels how well they are skating. 

 

He matches her attack, her passion, in the Short Dance with what seems like exuberance as well as intensity, and it is strange because she loses herself in it, in the movement, in the music, in this connection with him, and when the music ends and he kneels, resting his forehead against her hipbone and she has both her hands tangled in his hair - she can’t breathe. 

 

Her head is spinning, there are fireworks in her blood, and he lifts his head to look at her and she can’t breathe. 

 

It’s a whirlwind after that; she feels about to shatter if he isn’t touching her, grounding her, as they get through the rest of the day though she has no idea how because she doesn’t think either of them speak at all. Physio, more ice time working on the same dance, food she barely tastes but eats anyway, and without his gaze on her she feels naked. His hands linger more than they do normally, and he shifts closer to her when she tangles her fingers with his to keep his hands on her, his fingers flexing. 

 

She finds herself in his bed that night. 

 

Not that she’s surprised, really.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Are we being reckless?” She’s sitting at his kitchen bar the next morning, attacking the plate of scrambled eggs on toast he sets in front of her. 

 

He sighs heavily, setting his coffee mug down on the counter, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t regret last night, but you’re right. The timing isn’t ideal.”

 

“I don’t regret it either, Jaime,” she murmurs, and it moves her deeply to see how his frame relaxes at her words. “And… you are the first man that I have been with, that I have wanted to be with. Last night was wonderful,” she smiles, before adding mischievously, “and I wouldn’t be opposed at all if it were to happen again in the future, but _our skating…_ ”

 

“I’m glad you don’t regret it,” he smiles back, “and when you are ready to talk I’ll be there. However, I think we need to come up with a plan of how to manage this and our skating.”

 

“Lay all our cards out on the table, set ground rules, that kind of thing?”

 

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” he agrees easily. 

 

“What-what do you want?” she asks tentatively. 

 

“I want you, and I want our medal,” he replies solemnly, and she can only gape at him. “What do you want?”

 

She can only repeat his words, sincere. “I want you, and I want our medal.”

 

He swallows, reaching for her hand, and she’s dizzy and probably still a bit in shock from her family’s actions yesterday and euphoric from her night with him, but her pounding heart settles as soon as he tangles his fingers with hers. 

 

It feels right.

 

“So what now?” she says.

 

“We keep the ice on the ice,” he answers. “That is fundamental.”

 

“I know,” she nods. “Aside from that, one day at a time, we keep communicating?”

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


End file.
